Unfinished Pages
by ladybug28
Summary: Gilbert Biellschmidt is an author. He's not sure why, really- It just seemed like a good idea. He's written books about angst, and adventure, but now he wants to write a romance. To do so, he decides to fall in love for inspiration. It's proving pretty difficult, so far. Nyo!Canada. Prucan. Rated T for Language.


He wasn't sure what had led him to become a writer. He lived in New York City, land of opportunity and heartbreak. Perhaps that was why he had a fascination with the stories of those he didn't know.

Gilbert wrote stories of men plagued by the thirst for adventure; he wrote the lives of women who left the confines of women to find themselves. But he had never written a life of romance. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that you needed inspiration. Therefore, he would search for it.

He, in order to perfect his inspiration, would become his character; Gilbert Biellschmidt would fall in love.

In all honesty he really had no idea where to begin. Love at first sight, he found, did not magically appear at your feet. A fact he found very unawesome. What did it take to fall in love? One night, as he sat at his younger brother's table, an idea occurred to him. Just around the corner, there was a coffee-shop. It was owned and worked by a Frenchman, who Gilbert happened to be on very good terms with. In need of help, Gilbert could think of no one better to help him in his quest for romance.

The next time he was in the area, he stopped by to speak to him. Francis was ecstatic to see him, and even more overjoyed once he explained the situation. It turned out that Francis was quite the love expert. He told him that he was trying much too hard, and that it would happen naturally. This discouraged Gilbert. He had never been good with waiting. When told this, Francis offered a handsome, if not secret, smile.

" Do not worry," he had said, " You will find her.

Somewhere, deep in his mind, he was beginning to doubt this.

A month into his endeavors, Gilbert found her.

Coincidentally, he had been about ready to give up. The day had begun just as the others, with endless rejections and failures. By the time Gilbert shuffled into Francis' coffee-shop, he had had enough drinks thrown in his face that he was ready to tell Francis exactly where he could stick his advice. As he opened the door and the bell rang, he turned his gaze upwards, about to chew the Frenchman out, then stopped.

This was the moment he had been waiting for; and he couldn't have cared less. He was much too busy staring at the angel behind the register. He had convinced himself that the moment would be something remarkable, something awesome and spectacular.

It was nothing close. As a writer, he had imagined so many scenarios where he would meet the eyes of a woman and just know. As a person, he now knew that it was both more and less than this.

It was seeing a person for the first time, and knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that this person was your destiny. It was knowing immediately, and having no need for sparkles or a grand entrance. You just knew. And you completely welcomed it. He had been romanticizing something that romanticized itself.

He felt as though his body was controlling itself as it propelled him towards the counter. She glanced up at him and he let himself fall. Long black lashes framed eyes the color of periwinkle on either side of a button nose. In Gilbert's opinion, no description in any book could do this girl justice, no matter who wrote.

" Hello, sir," she said in a quiet voice, pushing her golden bangs from her face. " What can I get you today?"

He couldn't seem to speak in her prescence.

" Huh? Oh- uh, _ja._ I-"

Oh, shit. What was he supposed to say? He hadn't had time to contemplate what he was doing. " Sir?" Her eyebrows knitted together and he had to physically restrain himself from slapping himself. " I'm sorry. I don't really know what I want. What, um, do you recommend?" He plastered on a smile that he could only hope didn't look like a grimace.

He had never actually gotten anything at the shop before. He had really only come for the atmosphere and Francis' company. Her nose scrunched up in thought and it lifted her glasses slightly. He took the opportunity to glance down at her nametag. Madeline. Such a normal name sounded so lovely now.

" It depends," she finally responded. " Do you like sweeter things, or do you like bitter things?"

He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. " I'm not actually a coffee person. But I do like sweet things," he confessed. _Like you_, was the unspoken finish to the confession. She nodded in understanding and her pigtails bounced. Were those natural curls?

" Maybe you could try black coffee with something sweet in it." She said questioningly.

He'd.. never done that before. He felt kind of stupid now.

" Any suggestions?"

She seemed excited by the query. " _Oui! _Sorry. Yes. There's always sugar, but you have to use three or four packets, usually. I prefer maple syrup."

She stooped down and pulled a jar from underneath the counter. Madeline held up the jar and pointed to the label. Syrup? In coffee? It would definitely be interesting.

" That's weird, but sure." He shrugged. She smiled meekly before ringing the order up. " Ok, that'll be 2.03, please." He handed her the cash and left to sit at one of the window seats. He pulled his handheld notebook from his pocket and began scribbling down what he had learned.

_It was a lot easier than I made it out to be._

A moment later a shadow fell over the table and he found Madeline, with his coffee in hand, standing there. " One coffee, black with maple syrup, eh." He took it with slightly shaking fingers. Their hands touched and it startled him. He had expected sparks. _" Danke_," he thanked her. He sat the cup down and began writing again, when he realised Madeline was still standing there. " I was wondering what, er, what you were writing. You don't have to tell me," she said, panicking.

He grinned at her and beckoned to the seat across from him. Perhaps this would work after all.

She glanced at the clock warily. " It _is_ almost my break," she muttered. Sighing, she sat down heavily.

" Long day?" asked Gilbert with a raised eyebrow.

" Definitely. Oh gosh, and it's only my first day."

"Well, I wish you luck," he told her.

" Thanks," she smiled, dimples appearing on her cheeks. " So what _are_ you writing?" He picked up his coffee and took a long sip, mainly to build suspense. After all, he was a writer. The effect was ruined as the taste truly hit him.

" Holy shit," he said in amazement.

" I told you," Madeline simply said.

" Man, that was supposed to be a dramatic pause. Oh, well. It'll still be awesome. I, _mein lieber_, am writing," he raised his arms triumphantly, " a _romance_."

Madeline giggled. The sound made him laugh.

" If you don't mind me saying," she began, " you don't really seem like a romantic."

" That's because I'm not. I've never written romance before in my life. Angst, _ja_. Adventure, _ja. _Romance, _nein._" Madeline propped her chin up on her hands, leaning forward. She stared at him for a moment, scanning his expression.

" So you've written books before? Anything I might've read?" Gilbert thought about it. Did he want to tell her? Not really. In all honesty, she probably had read something of his before, or at least heard of it.

" Probably not," he decided. " I'm kind of obscure." She wouldn't know who he was, but she might, at least, recognize one of his books. She raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

" Oh, come on. I mostly read some of the lesser known authors."

" Such as?" he asked and took another sip of that sinfully good coffee.

" Eh, Brian Jacques, T.A. Barron, G. Biellschmidt.." Here he promptly choked on his coffee. " O-oh?" he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. " Have you heard of him?"

" I may have, but then I have horrid memory." Lie. Gilbert had fabulous memory, and many of his college professors had commented on it. Madeline hummed.

" Biellschmidt's my absolute favourite. His portrayal of humanity is spot on, you know?"

He'd never been complimented on that part of his writing before. One of his biggest reasons for writing was to show all types of people. In his twenty-four years, as short as it was, he had come to know many types of people. He had also come to recognise many kinds of prejudice.

In his experience, humanity was three-faced.

The victim.

The accuser.

And the bystander.

Gilbert was never sure where to classify himself.

" Yeah.." Suddenly, in the foremast region of his mind he knew exactly what he would write about. " Hey, I gotta go. I just had a breakthrough." Her eyes widened and she hurriedly fixed her glasses.

" R-really? Then write it!" He stood quickly, grabbing the coffee and notebook. " Will do, Miss." As he pressed his back into the door, he stopped and met her eyes. " Hey, Birdie." He didn't know where it came from but it was oddly fitting. " Yes?" answered Madeline from behind the counter.

" Wish me luck," he said.

She froze, hands stilling. Her mouth lifted into a small smile.

" Be awesome, eh?" she said, turning a bit red.

He could swear that his heart was going to beat straight out of his chest.

That night, he wrote. His mind was a whirlwind, as was his pen. By four in the morning, he had three hundred pages written on the life of someone he would never meet. Someone he knew better than himself.

But he still wasn't finished.

His eyes were swollen from staring at the dim light of his laptop screen. His fingers were cramped from hours of typing. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He needed coffee badly, and it was no joking matter.

Francis' shop didn't open for another hour.

Well. He was completely fucked. Meh, he could use the exercise, anyway. He hadn't even changed when he returned the night before. With the printed manuscript under one arm, he left the apartment, forgetting to turn off the lights.

Twenty minutes later found him standing outside the shop, leaning against the window.

Madeline, who had spotted him there, let him in with a worried smile. " Are you alright? Oh, you look horrible. Didn't you sleep?" As his response, he dropped the thick stack of paper on the table. She blinked.

" You finished it? Let me get you some coffee." He rummaged through his pockets to find he had forgotten his wallet. " No, it's on the house." She said.

He stopped. " Are you allowed to do that?"

" Oh, Uncle Francis won't care. By they way, is there any reason you specifically came here?"

He had thought out his response a billion times.

" I need help with these unfinished pages."


End file.
